


A Happy Heart

by moonlit_verities



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Ignores Series 4, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No References To Series 4, Or any particular series tbh, Soft John Watson, like blink and you'll miss it, not explicit, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 04:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12124890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlit_verities/pseuds/moonlit_verities
Summary: “I love you” Sherlock says simply, as though the very sound of it doesn’t completely shatter John’s world every time.





	A Happy Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little something I started writing on tumblr but it kind of got away from me so I'm posting it here instead. Still very new at this whole fanfic thing so constructive feedback is welcome. Kudos and comments welcomed and greatly appreciated. Wasn't really expecting to post this here so it's unbeta'd.

There’s nothing definite that wakes him. Just a restlessness and the niggling feeling in the back of his mind like there is something he has forgotten to do. He rolls over in that half-awake, half-asleep fog seeking the warmth of the gangly mess of limbs beside him.

The cold emptiness of the sheets that meet his arm is enough to shift him from dozing to fully awake in seconds. He blinks slowly, eyes adjusting in the half dark, and takes in the crooked pillow and pushed back bed clothes of Sherlock’s side of the bed. He frowns slightly and his mind, even after all this time, panics briefly at what an empty bed in the middle of the night can mean. He catches his thoughts before they go tripping head long into the worst case scenario and silently berates himself for still doubting the permanence of the happiness they’ve built themselves. That they’ve allowed themselves.

It’s the tinkle of glass and the soft creak of a chair that snaps him out of his spiralling thoughts and he exhales guiltily. It’s in these moments that he yearns for the reassurance brought by physical connection, longs to be enveloped by the strong arms of the one man he allows himself to be truly vulnerable with. He stares at the illuminated 2:05 on his alarm clock until it becomes 2:07 and debates whether to get up or force himself back into a restless sleep. Eventually his full bladder makes the decision for him and he swings his legs out from under the covers and hobbles, muscles tight and sleep stiff, out the bedroom door and down the corridor.

Sherlock sits at the kitchen table; pipette in one hand, pen furiously scribbling in the other. His curls are wild and kinked from sleep and the overhead light illuminates his skin to an almost unnatural whiteness and John’s mouth feels dry just looking at the shadows in the dips and curves of his collar bones. John stands there against the fridge staring and _feeling_ for a full minute before Sherlock even notices him.

“John? Did I wake you?” his voice is quiet and concerned.

John knows that tone, cautious and unsure, and his heart feels full from it. Nightmares don’t happen often these days, but that doesn’t mean they don’t happen at all. John smiles, warm and fond in the face of Sherlock's concern, and pushes himself off the fridge towards him.

“No love, you didn’t” he replies, even if it’s only half true.

John spends some time looking at the spread of flasks and beakers holding varying liquids and oddities and pretends to understand what he is seeing while Sherlock explains the particulars of what he is working on. _Mad genius_ he thinks fondly as he moves to Sherlock’s side and gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“Are you coming back to bed tonight or will I see you in the morning?” John tries to sound casual and not at all desperate. He thinks he almost pulls it off.

Sherlock gives a non-committal hum, eyes already absorbed back in the work in front of him. John chuckles, despite the itch along his spine at the thought of going back to an empty bed, and makes a move toward the bedroom.

He is stopped by a hand on his wrist and Sherlock calling his name and ends up being pulled down into a searingly hot kiss that lasts long enough for John’s knees to start cramping from the odd angle he is twisted at. John has kissed his fair share of people in the past but nobody has managed to make his hair stand on end and his heart thump the way that this wonderful man does. Eventually Sherlock pulls back, free palm cupping John’s face, and plants one more soft kiss on John’s top lip before releasing his now sweaty wrist.

“What was that for?” John grins.

Sherlock shrugs; they both know what that was for. Understanding. Reassurance. A promise.

“I love you” Sherlock says simply, as though the very sound of it doesn’t completely shatter John’s world every time.

He’s still grinning madly when he responds; “Yeah…Yes. You too. I- I love you too, you nutter.”

Sherlock smirks and smacks John’s behind before responding.

“Now go back to bed old man, I can practically hear your knees creaking from here.”

John rolls his eyes and bids Sherlock good night before taking care of his now insistent bladder and sliding back between the sheets to attempt to find rest.

John is just on the precipice of sleep when he feels the bed dip beside him. He smiles into his pillow before turning to face Sherlock, who has taken up his usual position on his stomach; hands tucked under his pillow and face tipped towards John.

“You sure you’re ok with sharing your bed with an old man?” John teases, voice thick with lethargy.

“Hmm, it could be worse I suppose, you could still have that hideous moustache,” John squeaks out an indignant _oi_ but Sherlock continues, “honestly John, you looked like a senior citizen.”

John considers feigning annoyance for a second but he is too drunk on contentment to bother, so he giggles instead and is soon joined by Sherlock.  
After a good giggle and some more shuffling John rests his palm on Sherlock’s back and starts slowly running it up and down Sherlock’s bare skin as the detective begins to explain the results of his experiment.

John listens, eyes closed and mouth pulled into a lazy smile as Sherlock babbles on, voice getting slower and softer as sleep becomes less illusive. He asks a few questions to show he is listening, although that’s getting harder by the second, and slides his hand lower down Sherlock’s back before slipping it inside Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms; cupping one of Sherlock’s cheeks. Not for any particular reason other than he can. They have this now; this intimacy.

He doesn’t intend it to be sexual, but he can’t help but grin at the way his pinky finger, incidentally just barely stroking along the inside of the fleshy globe in his palm, causes Sherlock’s speech to falter.

“John Watson,” comes Sherlock’s faux scandalised tone, “don’t start anything you don’t _thoroughly_ intend to finish.”

He laughs and gives Sherlock’s arse a squeeze before withdrawing his hand back to rest on his sacrum. He means to offer a retort but the gentle clutches of sleep finally pull him under and he drifts off with the feeling of lips on his brow and a lightness in his chest.

~**~

John wakes the next morning to humid breath on his neck and soft curls tickling his nose. He allows himself to bask in the heaviness of Sherlock’s frame draped across him; a firm thigh pressed against the semi-hardness in his pyjama bottoms and a hand curled around his shoulder.

“Morning” Sherlock greets him, sleep drowsy voice a deep rumble against John’s chest.

Sherlock shifts slightly, hand loosening from its grip on John’s shoulder and thigh adjusting against John’s groin. John exhales at the warm pleasure that zings lazily along his nerves in response to Sherlock’s movement. It hasn’t gone unnoticed-

“Good _morning_ ” he repeats, tone lascivious and dripping with cheek.

Sherlock pushes up and kisses John slowly, mouth sour from sleep, and John relaxes into the liquid feeling of it. Sherlock pulls back and winks; “hold that thought”, before throwing the covers back and dashing off into the bathroom. John gives a frustrated huff as he smiles to himself and rubs his hand over his face and waits for Sherlock to finish.

The shifting of bedclothes reawakens him from the little half-sleep he’s slipped into and he blinks his heavy eyes open. There is a gap in the curtains and a single beam of sunlight filters into the room. Dust moats dance in the golden morning light as it streams lazily across their sheets and John, rubbing the crust from his eyes, squints a little at the bright contrast it makes against the dark of the rest of the room. The single beam hits Sherlock’s bare chest and licks the side of his face and John, for a moment, is irrationally jealous of a fucking sunbeam. God, when did he become so far gone that he envies the sunlight simply because it’s sits so closely on his lover’s skin?

Sherlock is just staring at him; his face is fragile and fierce and amused all at once and in that moment John’s heart seizes and the next words tumble out of his mouth so easily and sincerely and without any hesitation.

“Marry me?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows immediately shoot up into his hairline and his entire neck and face flush exquisitely, his mouth falling open in an almost comical fashion. John holds his breath before letting out a short nervous laugh and suddenly he finds himself being pulled on top of a red faced Sherlock.

Sherlock frowns. Blinks. Closes his mouth. Opens it. Closes it again. Blinks again. Swallows.

“John Hamish Watson,” he starts carefully, voice still thick from sleep, before his expression turns impish, “you _did not_ just propose to me with morning breath and a half-hard cock.”

And John can’t stop the laughter that bursts from him; he buries his nose in Sherlock’s neck and shakes with it. And Sherlock laughs right along with him, body trembling beneath him, doing nothing to impede the state of the half-hard cock in question.

“Yeah um,” John manages to wheeze out between giggles “yeah I guess I did.”

Their laughter dies a little but the playfulness in Sherlock’s tone does not when he responds; “dreadfully unromantic of you John. I suspect I may need convincing.” He punctuates the last word with a wicked grin and an upward roll of his hips and John can feel that he is not the only one at half-mast.

John snorts; “Oh yeah? Giving me cheek for having morning wood and now he wants _convincing_ ,” he presses his hips down in return, “what would turn your favour hmm? A nice hand job?”

Sherlock’s laugh rumbles against John’s chest; “hmmm, no. But a blowjob might.”  
John feigns an outraged huff and precedes to snog the life out of him, hips grinding deliciously against Sherlock who squirms beautifully beneath him. For a while the only sounds in the room are the rustling of sheets, soft moans, and breathy laughter, while John goes about the task of convincing his lover.

 

Sherlock doesn’t end up getting that blowjob but later, when they both lie there with sticky skin and ruddy cheeks, he looks over at John and says the word so easily.

“Yes.”

John lies panting, flooded with endorphins and flushed from climax, and is slow to understand as he peers at Sherlock through the heady post-orgasm haze that’s settled on his brain.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock repeats louder and with conviction, and suddenly John’s brain whirs back into motion and he grins like a loon; so hard his cheeks hurt with the effort of it.

Sherlock beams back, almost bashfully, and John launches himself at the detective, unable to stop his own whoop of self-congratulations. He looks down at Sherlock, face alight with the golden morning light, and tangles his fingers in his sleep mussed curls before softly planting his lips on Sherlock’s.

He kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

Eventually he pulls back and takes in the sight of Sherlock’s blown pupils and kiss-plump lips. John smiles softly down at him and Sherlock smiles coyly back and John drinks it all in and thinks simply; _you_. There had been a time when the very thought of having this terrified John so deeply that he’d built barrier after barrier between himself and the very possibility of this eventuality. The depth of feeling he has for this man is something he never thought he’d be capable of but he harbours no trepidation at the prospect of spending the rest of his life with this brilliant, infuriating, magnificent, beautiful and resilient man.

“I love you” he says, because he’ll never get tired of saying it.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, voice cracking; “you too.”

John settles beside him, arm draped across Sherlock’s middle and hand stroking lazily up his side. He is very tempted to turn his arm inward and entice Sherlock into round two but the idea of an extended lie-in is a welcome one so he shelves his more amorous thoughts for later and begins to happily surrender to the tug of sleep.

He has just about drifted off when he hears Sherlock mutter beside him; “You still owe me that blowjob.”

John grins and pulls his _fiancé_ closer to him and is lulled back to sleep by soft neck kisses and thoughts of sunbeams and blowjobs and pipettes and laughter, and the contented feeling that comes from a happy heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I was a little unsure of how to rate this so let me know if you feel this should be bumped up to mature. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. I'm on tumblr too @[ starlitsecrets](starlitsecrets.tumblr.com) so feel free to come chat, I don't know many people in this fandom.


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